


A Risk

by nagi_schwarz



Series: Juris Imprudence [3]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-27 17:01:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6292582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/pseuds/nagi_schwarz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the comment_fic prompt: SG-1, Jack/Daniel, a world where Daniel became a lawyer instead of an archeologist (he still speaks twenty languages, though). Jack interviews the new translator and gets more than be bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Risk

Jack was scrambling to make his desk look as organized as possible when the intercom buzzed.  
  
"Mr. O'Neill," Walter said, "your ten o'clock is here."  
  
"Give me a second. I'll come get him."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
Walter, like so many of the employees at Woolsey O'Neill & Weir, had once served in the armed forces, and try as he might, Jack couldn't get the man to call him by his first name.  
  
Jack shuffled one last mess of papers into a neat-looking pile (he'd regret that later when he tried to read them) and stood up, smoothed down his shirt. He hated job interviews, no matter which side of the desk he was on, but he was a managing partner now, so he had to do actual managerial things, like hiring.  
  
He stepped out of his office and around Walter's desk to where the candidate was sitting in one of the waiting room chairs. Daniel Jackson was tall, handsome, and dressed in tweed like a professor twice his age.  
  
"Daniel Jackson, I'm Jack O'Neill."  
  
Jackson's handshake was firm and confident despite his appearance as a timid, retiring academic.  
  
"Good to meet you." Jackson's voice was a pleasant tenor. It was important for a lawyer to have a pleasant voice if he was going to be doing a lot of speaking. Something unreadable flashed briefly in his eyes when he met Jack's gaze, something that wasn't quite recognition, but was _knowing_. Jack wasn't sure what to make of it. He'd remember if he'd seen a man like Jackson before. One of the perks of being done with the Air Force was that now, if he so chose, he could act on his interest, and given the chance with a man like Jackson, he would have. (But nope, not with a coworker or employee. No dipping one's pen in the company ink. It was a personal principle.)  
  
"This way, please." He stepped aside and let Jackson enter his office first, closed the door behind him, and resumed his seat on the other side of the desk.  
  
"Glad you found your way all right," Jack said. The law offices were located on the top floor of an old factory, the lower floors of which were populated with a dance studio, a fashion designer's studio, and a martial arts dojo. Most people got lost the first time.  
  
"Your administrative staff gave excellent directions." Jackson slid his glasses higher up his nose. He had piercing blue eyes, and Jack had the sense that he was being assessed as much as he was doing the assessing.  
  
"I have to say," Jack said, "I was intrigued when I read your CV. I've never heard of a lawyer who started off in archaeology."  
  
"My parents were both archaeologists, as is my grandfather," Jackson said, "so it was a natural choice for undergrad, but when it came time for graduate school, I discovered I wanted to have a more immediate impact on humanity, and defending people's rights seemed like a better way to achieve that."  
  
Jack noted the verb tenses about parents versus grandfather. "You graduated from Chicago-Kent with high honors, so it would appear that whatever you pursue, you excel in it."  
  
"I do my best," Jackson said, and there was something wry in his tone that belied any suggestion of false modesty.  
  
"So you started off in international relations with the UN in New York – kudos on passing the New York bar exam, by the way – but then you switched to being a law guardian. Why the drastic change in pace?" And pay, but Jack wasn't actually crass enough to ask that, despite what Weir and Woolsey suggested during staff meetings.  
  
"Much of what goes on at the UN is polyglot puffery, and little got done," Jackson said, and Jack had the niggling feeling that he should know Jackson from somewhere. He'd accompanied Weir to the UN all of once, and he wasn't sure it was when Jackson had worked there. 

"Being a law guardian was harder work and paid less, but ultimately more rewarding," Jackson continued. His shoulders stiffened ever so slightly, and he said, "I was in foster care as a child in New York, and at the time law guardians didn't even exist. Looking back on my experience, I would have benefited from one, and if I could help other children in similar situations, why not? New York has such a diverse population that my linguistic skills saw good use."

Woolsey and Weir weren't looking to hire on a private law guardian, because the state contract for private law guardians was borderline abusive (and as soon as they hired an employment law specialist Woolsey would be all over that), but with the sudden boom in international corporations opening up manufacturing facilities in their neck of the woods, linguistic skills like Jackson's were a necessity if the firm wanted to keep up with the heavy hitters who had offices coast-to-coast.

"We're looking mostly to hire a legally-trained translator and interpreter to help our corporate and ADR teams with some new international clients," Jack said. Honestly, they didn't even need a JD for the position. A paralegal with good language skills would have been enough. But Jack recognized the fire in Jackson's gaze. He took a deep breath and a risk. It was the kind of risk that Weir and Woolsey would yell at him for, but it was the kind of risk that had saved his life in battle. "How would you feel about maintaining a small law guardian caseload in addition to your translating and interpreting work?"

"How small is small? ABA guidelines recommend sixty cases per guardian, so naturally we average a hundred and thirty."

"Thirty to forty," Jack said. He was just making up numbers, and judging by the way the corners of Jackson's mouth turned up in faint amusement, Jackson knew it.

But Jackson said, politely, "I'd feel absolutely fine about that."

Jackson was absolutely fine all right. Jack really wished, sometimes, that he wasn't as principled a man as he was. He said, "Lay it all out on the table for me. What irritating habits do you have? So I know ahead of time if we end up working together."

Jackson raised his eyebrows, but then his expression turned thoughtful. "I'm stubborn and opinionated."

"A lawyer with a spine, you mean."

"I usually forget to refill the coffee pot after I take the last of it."

"We have paralegals for that." If Lorne had been assigned to manage a Starbucks, he probably could have used it as a launching point to take over the whole town. Jack wished he'd had officers as efficient as Lorne when he'd been in the field. He still wasn't entirely sure where Lorne had served, but since Jack had more than a few spots in his military personnel file redacted, he didn't push the issue too hard.

"I deface pretty much every reference material I get my hands on, usually with profanities, but in languages no one else knows."

Jack raised his eyebrows at that. "Speaking of languages no one else knows –" He switched to Arabic, hard-earned from his time in Iraq, "you say you speak two dozen. Which ones?"

Jackson listed them all in perfect Arabic. He spoke it with an Egyptian accent. Jack wondered if that was because he'd done most of his diplomatic work with Egyptians or if it was related to his archaeological pursuits. Then Jackson fired back, still in Arabic, "Have I passed your test?" There was a challenge in his eyes Jack couldn't comprehend. Jack was the one issuing the challenge, after all. Are you good enough for my firm?

But Jack answered anyway. "With a flying coat of many colors," and Jackson laughed.

For one moment Jack was struck with a memory of a teenage boy, blond, face almost indecipherable beneath sweat and dirt and sand, gazing at Jack with bright blue eyes and murmuring in Egyptian-accented Arabic, pressing his hands through the prison bars to Jack, seeking comfort. Jack remembered the way the boy had laughed at Jack's terrible Arabic but then tried to help him, translated for the guards so Jack could figure out how to escape –

He forced himself back to the present, and Jackson was watching him intently again, gaze piercing, analyzing.

What was it he saw in Jack that Jack wasn't seeing in him?

No matter. Maybe he'd have Lorne dig it up later. 

"I have to check it over with the other managing partners," Jack said, "but I think I speak for all of us when I say welcome to the team." He offered a hand.

Jackson shook it, and a pleased smile spread across his features. Jack damned his principles.

He escorted Jackson out of the office, and then he made a beeline for the paralegals' cubicles.

"Lorne, I have an assignment for you."

Lorne, on the phone and speaking in rough Spanish, held up a manila folder labeled _Jackson, Daniel._

"Thanks," Jack said, and retreated to his office with it. Some days, he was pretty sure Lorne was a robot.


End file.
